When it came time for Thatcher to leave, his double-handed handshake with Jesse held for a long time in an unspoken acknowledgment that this was goodbye.

* * *

One afternoon Irma Maxwell knocked softly on the bedroom door then came in carrying a plate with a sandwich on it. “Since you didn’t come to the table for lunch…” She halted midway across the room.

Thatcher’s chair was pulled up close to the bed. His hand was wrapped around Mr. Hobson’s. “He passed.” He cleared his husky throat. “About ten minutes ago. No event. It was dignified and peaceful.”

* * *

He spent that night with the Maxwells, but in the morning he came downstairs carrying his duffel bag already packed. He wanted to make a clean break before Trey arrived. Yesterday when notified of his father’s death, he’d told Mr. Maxwell that he “couldn’t get away” until this morning.

Thatcher didn’t think he could be civil to the self-centered bastard, and it would be disrespectful to Mr. Hobson to create tension or cause a scene. Besides, attending a stuffy funeral, Mr. Hobson in a casket, him in a pew, didn’t seem a fitting end to these meaningful weeks they had spent in each other’s company.

He declined the Maxwells’ offer of breakfast before he left. “Thank you, but there’s a train at nine-forty. I’d like to make it.”

“Before you go.” Mr. Maxwell went over to a chest and took a shoe box from one of the drawers. “When Mr. Hobson was moved in here with us, this was among his things.”

He handed the box to Thatcher. His name was written on top in Mr. Hobson’s bold scrawl. Before he raised the lid, Thatcher heard the familiar jingle and knew what he would find inside: Mr. Hobson’s spurs, still dirt-encrusted from his last ride.

Sixty-Two

Not entrusting his saddle to the baggage car, Thatcher boarded the train with it on his shoulder. He set it in the seat in front of him where he could keep an eye on it. He took the seat next to the window.

To discourage interaction with other passengers, he pulled his cowboy hat over his eyes, slumped in his seat, and pretended to be asleep. The train chuffed out of the station.

He must have dozed, because he was roused by someone asking, “Is this seat taken?”

Damn. Thatcher shook his head. “No.”

“Aw, good. The cars are crowded.”

The passenger settled into the seat. “Where are you headed?”

So much for discouraging conversation. Thatcher took off his hat and placed it on his knee. He put his thumb and middle finger into his eye sockets and rubbed them. “Abilene. Then east from there.”

“Back to Foley?”

Surprised by that response, Thatcher glanced at his seat partner, did a double take, then his right hand automatically went for his pistol.

“You’re not wearing your gun belt. I checked as you boarded. I didn’t want you to shoot me before I could explain myself.”

The smile he flashed was not that of a pimp. In place of the gold tooth was a normal white molar. “You thought you’d seen the last of Chester Landry, didn’t you? Well, you have. And, God, what a jerk he was. I’m glad to be shed of him.”

He had medium brown hair that was wavy and loose, not slicked back with pounds of pomade. He was dressed in a conservative dark suit, with a pinstripe vest and unremarkable necktie.

Thatcher looked around to see if they were being observed, possibly to reassure himself that he wasn’t dreaming. No one was paying him any attention except the man seated next to him. Thatcher said, “Who the hell are you?”

“Lewis Mahoney, detective, Dallas PD. I’ll show you my badge if you insist, but that can be awkward, because I’m presently on loan to another agency, working undercover.”

“What agency?”

“I can’t tell.”

“That’s convenient.”

“Actually it’s a nuisance. Because I would like for you to believe me, Mr. Hutton. I’m sure you have questions. I’ll answer those I can.”

“What happened to Randy?”

“He was drawing too much attention to himself. I was afraid that Croft was going to have him killed, so I had to get him out of there. I lured him to Dallas by promising him a position in my fictitious bootlegging operation. I took him to a speakeasy to celebrate his new employment. It was raided, as planned. Dallas police arrested him, as planned. I escaped arrest, as planned.”

“Like at Lefty’s.”

He made a wry face. “No, that wasn’t planned. I just got lucky that night. Anyway. Randy. Arresting officers promised him clemency in exchange for names. That of Chester Landry topped his list, of course. Not the most loyal of acquaintances, a young man of meager character, and negligible morals, but not deserving of having his throat cut by Jimmy Hennessy.” He looked at Thatcher shrewdly. “By the way, congratulations on that outstanding display of marksmanship. You’re already a legend. I’ll bet Wyatt Earp is pea green.”

Thatcher ignored that. “You know, some suspected me of being a secret agent.”

“Croft was convinced. You bedeviled him, Mr. Hutton.”

“I’m glad to hear it. But I’m talking about friends who figured me for a spy. I’d hate doing what you do, Mr. Mahoney.”

“Yes, you would. The integrity thing.”

“Doesn’t it ever bother you to rat out people who’ve befriended you?”

“It would if I didn’t stay focused on the big picture.”

“Which is what?”

“First and foremost, I’m an officer of the law. I despise this Prohibition act, because it is already making lawbreakers out of law-abiding people, and turning petty criminals into villainous racketeers. Croft, for example.”

“My understanding is that he was always corrupt.”

“Yes, but he hadn’t gone so far as to murder anyone. Greed rid him of restraint. Even in the short time I knew him, I saw it happening, and it was frightening. Mark my words, Hutton, the next war this country fights is going to be against violent crime syndicates that give no quarter.”

“Like Davy O’Connor’s assassination. Firing the Johnsons’ house.”

“Exactly like that. Jesus,” he said, shaking his head. “For months I’d been coordinating a countywide raid. Several agencies, working together, we were going to nail Hiram Johnson and Bernie Croft.” He made a helpless gesture.